


Lost Time is Gone Forever

by pooh_collector



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Multi, Post-Anklet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pooh_collector/pseuds/pooh_collector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an ordinary day three years after Neal has left Peter’s life, an unexpected message leaves Peter desperate to find his former partner.  This story goes AU during Season 5 Episode 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Time is Gone Forever

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/24xlmx231b0w1xd/losttime_cover.png)

**Ten**

Peter was working in his office when the messenger arrived. He had been ASAC of the White Collar division for a little more than three years and he still wasn’t used to the endless stream of paperwork that filtered across his desk every day. The distraction that the messenger provided was welcome, even if it came in the shape of a plain brown box with only the words “Agent Peter Burke, Federal Building” written on it in black block lettering. 

Inside the small package the cyclist would deliver to no one but Agent Peter Burke, Peter found an old-school bedside alarm clock, a big, round face attached to four peg legs with double bells and a handle on the top. Just a couple of minutes after Peter pulled the small clock from its inconspicuous packaging, it struck ten and the alarm went off, the bells clanging with a loud and tinny echo in his glass-encased office. 

Under the clock nestled into the brown paper that held the clock in place in the box was a small, white square of cardstock which read, “Do you know where your CI is? Tick Tock,” in the same block lettering that was on the box itself.

Peter frowned. He didn’t have a CI. In fact, he hadn’t had one in three years. 

Peter’s mind flitted unbidden to Neal and the look on his former CI’s face the day the Marshals came to collect him for the trip down to D.C. Peter didn’t like remembering that day. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had loved Neal and if he was honest with himself, he still did and always would. But, what they had had together was over long ago. It had bled away during the long, anxious nights that Peter had spent lying on a paper thin mattress behind bars while Elizabeth had slept alone not knowing if her husband would ever return to their bed again. 

The time on the clock was slightly off, it was just after ten in the morning and Peter was late for a department heads meeting.

He put the clock and the note back in the box and grabbed his meeting notes on his way out of his office. Down in the bullpen Peter handed the box and its contents to Jones.

“Jones, see what you can find out about this. It was delivered by courier. I didn’t catch the company name. “

Jones looked skeptical as he peered into the box and spied the clock and the note sitting atop it.

“Sure, Peter.” 

 

**Nine**

Peter’s meeting had thankfully been brief and he was back in the White Collar bullpen not long after eleven. On his way up to his office he noticed that both Jones and the box were missing. Maybe he had taken it down to ERT?

When Peter reached his office he noticed yet another plain brown box sitting on his desk. It was addressed in the same manner as the first box that had been delivered that morning and when he pulled the tape off and the flaps up inside he found a duplicate of the clock he had received an hour earlier. The time on the clock was dead wrong now; it read 9:10. The alarm was set to nine. It must have gone off and then timed out before he returned to his office.

Tucked beneath the clock was another small white card with the words, "Time is ticking away," in the same handwriting once again. 

The first box had definitely started something undefined in Peter's gut niggling, but this new one was upping his "something is wrong meter" considerably. But how could this possibly involve Neal? He had completed his sentence just over a year ago and Peter had heard not a thing about him since. As far as Peter knew, the younger man was conning his way through Europe or Asia or the American west, or all three. He honestly had no desire to know with certainty that Neal had returned to a life of crime; so he never went looking for any incidents that carried his former partner's signature. It was important to Peter to keep the idea of Neal living a life on the straight and narrow alive in his mind. Despite how their relationship ended he still needed to believe that something about the time they had spent together was lasting and worthwhile. 

But now, Peter had to wonder if he had any way of getting in touch with Neal should the need arise. Mozzie was as long gone as Neal was. As much as Mozzie had enjoyed Elizabeth's company, once Neal had been transferred to D.C., El had never heard from him again. Peter was fairly certain that neither Jones nor Diana had a contact number for Neal. Maybe, if it became necessary he could get in touch with June. She was most likely still living in her home on Riverside Drive.

Peter put the box to the side and sent a quick text to Jones asking if he had any new information on the first box. Then he started in on the pile of emails he had received while he had been out at his meeting, his concern over the clocks and the messages playing the role of annoying distraction in the back of his mind. 

Twenty minutes later Jones showed up at Peter's office door. "Jones, what you know?" Peter asked looking up from his computer monitor.

Jones shook his head as he entered Peter's office. "Not much. The clock is sold by Target, you can get it at any of their retail locations or through their online store. There were no fingerprints other than yours on the note, the clock, or the box. The cardstock the note was written on is a basic brand sold in any office supply store. There was nothing distinguishing."

Jones pointed to the second box sitting on the side of Peter's desk. "You got another one?"

Peter frowned and nodded. "The note says 'Time is ticking away,' and the time and the alarm were set for nine, instead of ten, otherwise it looks the same as the first."

"You think there's any chance whoever sent it got sloppy and left a print?" Jones mused. 

"Doubtful, but we might as well give it a try."

"Any clue what this is about?" Jones asked as he reached for the box.

"No, but I'm concerned about the mention of my CI. That could only be Neal." Peter frowned.

"It's probably just some sort of prank." Jones suggested.

"Probably," Peter agreed. "But while you're down with ERT check in with building security and see if you can find out which service delivered these packages."

"Sure," Jones replied on his way back out of Peter's office.

 

**Three years, one month and ten days ago**

Neal sat before his easel, his mind ostensibly on the painting before him, trying hard not to think about how difficult things had been since Peter had been released from prison. How hard things had been since his father had come back into his life, since Ellen was killed, since James had abandoned him again with Peter left taking the blame for another of his crimes, since Hagen, since Peter and El no longer seemed to want him in their lives or their bed. 

There was a knock on the door and Neal welcomed Peter in. “What time is it?” He wondered aloud. 

“Working awhile?” Peter asked in reply.

“Oh, you know how it is when you’re painting and you get into a zone.” Neal responded, trying hard not to let the things that had really been occupying his mind show through. 

“Can’t say that I do,” Peter replied, reaching into the fridge for a beer. “My job is all about perspective," Peter continued, turning back to face Neal, but not meeting the younger man’s eyes. "Being able to look at a situation and evaluate all of the angles.” He looked contemplative as he stood fiddling with his unopened beer.

Neal put down his palette knife and gave his partner his full attention.

“I realized that I can’t do that anymore.” Peter surmised. 

“What are you talking about?” Neal asked, a sense of foreboding churning in his belly. 

Peter turned, opened the refrigerator and put the beer back inside. “Jones, Diana, everyone in the White Collar offices, we’re all family and you’re a part of that family. And, these past months you’ve been a part of me and El too. You’re also a criminal. I forget that a lot,” Peter admitted. 

Neal looked away, shaking his head. This was it then, the conversation he had been dreading and that he had known was inevitable since Peter's release. 

“And until you’ve served out your sentence that’s exactly what you are. I’ve made mistakes because I’ve let emotions cloud my judgment and I can’t let that happen anymore.” There was resolve and a note of melancholy etched in Peter's voice. 

“What does that mean?” Neal asked, though he was honestly afraid of the answer. 

“I’m turning you over to a new handler. Someone with the right perspective. Someone who sees you as you are.”

“A criminal.” Neal said looking up at Peter with the gleam of tears in his eyes. It hurt to hear Peter utter that word. Neal had let himself believe that Peter saw him as so much more, a friend, a partner, a lover, a good man underneath the conman’s veneer.

Peter sighed, determined, and nodded. “This is in your best interest.”

Neal turned back toward his easel again. “I could have sworn that last week you told me you loved me.”

“I did,” Peter hesitated, “I do.” Now Peter looked teary-eyed also as he continued. “Neal, I can’t risk you going back. I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s the way it has to be.”

Neal swallowed hard. “Where are you sending me?”

“To D.C. Kramer signed an affidavit stating that he won’t do anything to extend your sentence. I have his word Neal. You’ll work for him; he’ll be able to keep you reigned in and in twenty-two months you’ll be free to live your life.”

Neal nodded. Free to live his life, a life without Peter and El. So it was over, the life the three of them had been building since Neal's return from Cape Verde. Peter had made up his mind, that was clear, and that was that. 

Peter turned then and headed toward the door. 

“Goodbye, Peter.” Neal said to Peter’s back, letting his unseen tears fall. 

 

**Eight**

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/pg617gwia6g0526/p2.png)

Neal went from unconscious to awake in an instant, sucking in a gulp of damp, warm air as his eyes flew open. He was lying flat on his back on a hard surface with his arms tucked at his sides. An eerie greenish-yellow glow was the only thing his eyes were able to capture. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own harsh breathing echoing back in his ears. 

Neal blinked hard to clear his vision hoping that the disconcerting feeling of confinement he was experiencing was merely a trick of the strange half-light. His hopes were quickly dashed when it became apparent that the 'ceiling' of his prison was a mere few inches above him and the ‘walls’ at his sides were even closer. 

Neal threw his hands up to slam against the rough wood above him. The board failed to give at all. The only thing his effort produced was the sound of a solid and unyielding thunk. His heart sank a little further. He had dearly hoped for a hollow thud. His palms stung from the impact against the rigid plank and he shook his hands out in the meager space above his chest in an attempt to alleviate the pain. 

Neal tilted his head up and then down toward his feet seeing wood above and below him, the box he was lying in was only slightly longer than his body. A coffin, or the equivalent, though any distinction hardly mattered as he had apparently been left here to die. A sense of anxiety settled heavily and painfully in his chest. Neal fought it, knowing that staying calm was vital to any possibility of staying alive. 

As he swiveled his head around to further assess the space, Neal noticed that something was written on the wall just above his head on his left side. "tick tock" accompanied by the very disconcerting image of a smiley face. Nice to know that his nemesis had a sense of humor, whoever it was this time, Neal supposed sarcastically. 

There was something down by his feet and the odd light seemed to be coming from his right side. He fished around with his hand until he felt something cylindrical. It was a light stick, probably one of the 12 hour versions. With the light source grasped in his hand, Neal shifted his feet away from the object at the bottom of the box and leaned to the side to try and see what was down there. Another cylinder, larger and metal, a small oxygen tank. Now that he knew it was there Neal could hear it above the sound of his own rough breathing, slowly hissing away, dispensing life preserving air into Neal’s claustrophobic home. 

So he wasn't meant to die too quickly. He didn't know whether that was supposed to be a comfort or a further torment, but he suspected the latter. 

With the where and the how established, Neal took a moment to try and suss out a why. None of his current work with Sterling Bosch would have incited anyone to come after him. Nor any of the private security jobs he'd picked up since his return to New York. It had been a bit longer than a year since he closed his last FBI case, though he supposed that anyone he helped put away over those four plus years could conceivably have a long memory and a penchant for revenge. There was no way to know, not from the scant evidence left with him.

In another time and another place Neal would have taken comfort in knowing that Peter would find him. With or without the weight of the tracker on his ankle, Peter had always managed to follow wherever Neal led. But, Peter wasn't coming this time.

A sudden sharp ache filled his chest, a longing for love long gone. Neal fought against the tears that began to well in his eyes. This wasn't the time or the place to dwell on what he'd lost. 

Peter wasn't coming and he needed to find a way out on his own. 

 

 **Seven**

By the time Peter received the fourth clock, he and Jones had tracked the previous three to three different courier services, each with offices located across Manhattan and the other four boroughs as well. In the only one where one of the packages originated that had a camera at the customer reception desk, their guy knew it was there and kept his face concealed behind the hood of his sweatshirt. The employee who had been working the desk could only describe the suspect as male, average height, average build, clean shaven, dark hair, dark eyes. 

The fourth clock did confirm for Peter that time was indeed ticking down. He had begun the day with ten hours and now had under seven to determine if this was some sort of joke or a credible threat. Unfortunately, his patented gut was telling him quite emphatically that it was indeed the latter. 

On the drive back from the courier’s office, Peter had attempted to contact June. The woman who answered the phone, Peter assumed one of the household staff, informed him that Mrs. Ellington was touring Europe with her granddaughter, and no, she would not provide the FBI with June's current cell phone number without a warrant. 

Despite the situation, Peter couldn't help but smile at June's continuing distrust of law enforcement. Once the wife of a con, always the wife of a con. 

Back at the office, he confirmed that no one working in White Collar knew of any way to contact Neal. Then he phoned Sara, who as far as he knew was still living in London and left her a voicemail urging her to get in contact with him as soon as possible. 

With nowhere left to turn Peter called the Art Crimes offices in D.C. 

"Phil," Peter began.

"Petey, I haven't heard from you since before Neal left."

Peter sighed. He hated the nickname, hated that he needed Kramer's help, hated to hear Neal's name come from the man's mouth. "I need to talk to Neal Phil and I was hoping you had a phone number or an email address for him, or maybe someone in your office is still in touch with him."

"Well now, I thought Neal would have run straight back to New York once his sentence was up, considering the way he always romanticized his time there with you."

Peter cringed at the word ‘romanticized’ hoping that it was just an ironic choice on Kramer's part. "This is important and rather time sensitive. Do you know of any way to contact Neal?"

Finally Phil seemed to sense Peter's urgency, "No, Peter. I'm sorry, but I don't. He never formed any real relationships with anyone in the office here and he left no forwarding information that I’m aware of." 

Peter sighed. His options were getting fewer and fewer.

"But, I'll ask around the office, just to be sure and get back to you if I find out anything."

"Thanks, Phil."

 

**Six**

At 1:45 PM Peter made his way down to the lobby of the Federal Building in the hope of intercepting the next package and being able to question the delivery person immediately. He knew it was unlikely that the delivery guy would know anything about the customer who dropped the package off, but he was frustrated with feeling like he was always an hour behind. 

Peter paced the marble floors anxiously, his eyes never leaving the doors. Four different delivery people entered the building between the time he arrived and when he decided to give up the ghost around 2:15. None of them were carrying a box of any size into the building. Not one of them was delivering anything addressed to him either.

As he made his way back up to the 21st floor, Peter briefly let himself believe that this had all been some elaborate hoax, someone was just screwing with him and had decided to pull out all the stops. He considered the possibilities, who could he have pissed off enough to go to such lengths? Only one name came immediately to mind, Mozzie. But while Moz certainly had the means and the connections to pull something like this off, and he was odd enough to do it with the right motivation, Peter couldn't image what, after all this time that motivation could be. Next on the list unfortunately, were a rather large number of criminals that Peter, and more likely Peter and Neal together had put behind bars in the two plus years they had worked together.

Once he entered the office, Peter went straight to Jones' desk. "Jones, can you put together a list of everyone that we took down while Neal was working with us and where they are now."

"You think someone the two of you put in prison could be behind all this?" Jones asked.

Peter shook his head. "I don't know what to think at this point. I didn't get another package."

Jones furrowed his brows, looked up toward Peter's office and then back at his boss. "Yes, you did. It showed up while you were gone."

"What?" Peter said as he quickly headed in the direction of his office. "Did you hold the delivery person?"

Jones got up from his desk and followed Peter up the stairs and into the office. "No, I assumed he was a dead end. He wouldn't know anything about who delivered it to the courier office. I did get the name and number of their Manhattan branch from the guy though."

Peter hastily opened the box on his desk that matched all the others he had received that day. Inside the alarm had already gone off and stopped of its own accord. It had been set for six. Time was running out while Peter floundered helplessly trying to get a lead on his former partner. It was time to switch gears. "I need that suspect list on my desk an hour ago."

Jones nodded determinedly as he headed back out of the door. "I'm on it."

 

 **Four years, three months and 18 days ago**

Neal was relaxing in the middle of the Burke's couch. His healing leg was propped up on a pillow on the coffee table. El was curled up on Neal's right and Peter was sitting on his left. El had made beef bourguignon for dinner and now they were relaxing in a haze from the delicious heavy food and the wine that had accompanied it.

"We missed you," Peter said, looking into Neal's eyes. The softness and caring in his voice were unmistakable.

Neal hesitated a moment before replying. He had missed them too, of course. More than they could ever know, more than he could really ever admit to himself. When Peter had pulled him into his arms on the parapet of the church on Cape Verde, he has hesitated then too. It had felt so good to be held by Peter, to know that Peter cared enough to come after him, cared enough to draw him into an embrace so warm and unreserved, that Neal couldn’t help but drop his guard and his reluctance and reciprocate. 

Peter and Elizabeth could never know what he really felt for both of them. Giving anything away was risking a lot, especially in light of what he had so recently been forced to do, leave them behind for what he believed was forever, but at the same time he couldn’t deny them his appreciation and his friendship. That much at least was well worth any risk.

“I missed you too,” Neal finally said, returning Peter’s gaze. “Both of you,” he continued, turning to El.

Peter and El both picked up on the hesitancy in Neal’s voice, the sadness that lingered behind his smile.

“Neal, El and I had a lot of time to think and talk while you were gone.” 

Neal looked back to Peter, an eyebrow raised. “About?”

“About your place in our lives. About how different things were when you were here. It had its up and downs, no doubt,” Peter intoned ruefully, “but despite the downs, we really missed the ups.”

Neal looked down at his hands, clutched in his lap. “I know I didn’t always make things easy, or easy at all.”

Peter huffed in amusement. “No, you didn’t. But, we’re willing to live with that. Relationships are about the good times _and_ the bad.”

Neal looked back up at his partner, confusion etched in his deep blue eyes. “Wait, relationships? What are trying to say, Peter?”

“What I’m trying to say, what we’re trying to say,” Peter added, indicating his wife, “is that our lives haven’t been the same without you. We want you to be a part of our life; we want you to be a part of us.”

Neal swallowed hard, trying desperately to process Peter’s words. He couldn’t possibly be proposing what it sounded like to Neal’s yearning ears. Peter and El, they were perfect, perfect people, in a perfect, loving, committed, passionate, fulfilling relationship. Why would they ever consider messing that up. And, for him of all people. The guy responsible for El being kidnapped, Peter being kidnapped, Peter nearly losing his job multiple times, and any number of other crazy and nearly disastrous mishaps. 

“I don’t understand,” he finally whispered.

“It’s not that complicated, sweetie. We love you.” El said.

“You and Peter, you’re perfect just the way you are. Why would risk that for me?” Neal countered.

“Well, first of all, we’re hardly perfect and second, no risk, no reward.” Peter replied. “When you were gone and we thought that we might never see you again, have you in our lives again, we decided that you were worth the risk. Something that had somehow become vital to our happiness was suddenly missing from our lives when you were gone - you.”

It was hard for Neal to imagine that Peter and El had any idea what they were asking him for, what they were setting themselves up for. Despite his romantic heart, his loyalty and his willingness to give anything he could to those he loved, he had never managed to have a successful relationship long term. Chaos and heartbreak seemed to follow him everywhere. 

Neal shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Neal said, breaking his own heart in the process.

“For you or for us?” Peter asked.

“For anyone. You’ll only get hurt in the end.”

“Why, Neal? Because you don’t love us?”

Neal shook his head again. “Because I do.”

Peter picked up Neal’s left hand and El followed gathering Neal’s other hand into the softness of both of hers. “And, that right there, is why you’re worth the risk,” Peter concluded. 

“Because I love you?”

“Because, you love us and because you’re willing to deny yourself the chance for love and happiness to protect us.”

Neal started to protest, but Peter stopped him with a stern shake of his head. “We want you and we’re not taking no for an answer.”

“Can we at least get it on record that I warned you?”

“Noted and round filed,” Peter said before leaning over and placing his mouth against Neal’s, kissing him with a tenderness juxtaposed by the scratch of stubble against his cheek. 

 

**Five**

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/wt215e0zojsx58w/p1.png)

Neal’s rise to consciousness came much more slowly the second time around. It took a long moment for him to remember where he was. His head ached, he wasn’t sure whether it was from the low level of oxygen in his prison or from his original capture. He didn’t remember whether he had been knocked unconscious then or drugged. In fact he remembered nothing after leaving June’s that morning. For all he knew it was no longer Tuesday. He wondered for a moment if anyone at Sterling Bosch would have noticed he hadn’t shown up at the office, if maybe, maybe they would have reported him missing. Of course it wouldn’t matter until he’d been AWOL for more than 24 hours to the police and if today was still Tuesday, he would be long dead before anyone even began looking for him.

Neal pushed the implications of that aside, along with the fantasy that he would be found by the NYPD. Then he remembered what he had been attempting to do before his most recent bout of unconsciousness, trying to escape.

Once in a fit of boredom while working for Phil Kramer, Neal had spent half a day poking around the Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook website. You never knew in Neal’s line of work when something unexpected and completely outside his wide parameters of weird would happen, like now. One of the articles that had made him chuckle at the time was the one about surviving being buried alive. 

He had managed with a good deal of struggling to wiggle out of his suit jacket which now lay beneath him. His shirt was off on his left side but stuck around his hand on his right. He had been attempting to undo the buttons on his cuff when the exertion had become too much and he had lost consciousness. Neal took a couple of deep breaths, holding the thin air in his lungs for as long as possible and then began working the buttons free again.

It took longer than he had hoped, draining him of much needed energy, but finally Neal had the sleeve off his arm and his shirt pulled up over his head to prevent him from suffocating should dirt rain down on his face if his attempt to kick through the coffin’s lid proved successful.

Again Neal took two long and slow breaths, trying to keep his mind and body as calm and relaxed as possible. Then he began kicking the coffin’s top plank with both feet trying to put as much force behind the blows as he could. He had hoped that the lid might already be at least partly cracked from the weight of what he assumed was dirt on top of it, but that didn’t seem to be the case when after five kicks that completely tapped Neal of what little energy he had, the lid was still solidly in place. 

He stopped to rest, trying to gather strength for another assault. He moved the shirt back down off his face, it was claustrophobic and airless enough without it blocking his nose and mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the smiley face drawn on the wood beside him again and felt rage build up inside him. There was absolutely nothing funny about dying in fear, alone and desperate. The smiley face had been put there to mock him and it made him burn with anger. 

Neal moved his shirt back up to re-cover his face and threw both of his feet up against the lid again, his fury and his fear giving new strength to his efforts. Neal kicked again and again, frustration bringing tears to his eyes that spilled down to be absorbed into the pale blue shirt that lay against his cheeks.

Despite his best efforts to keep his breathing calm and deep, Neal’s heart began to race in desperation, his breathing increasing to keep pace. He knew he should stop and rest again, pace himself, conserve oxygen, but he had to get out.

The pain in his head ratcheted, his vision behind his shirt began to waver and still Neal kicked and kicked with as much force as he could muster. Finally, Neal’s vision whited out, his legs slumped back to the bottom of his coffin and with a final ragged breath of defiance Neal lost consciousness again. 

 

**Four**

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/s5xd06vv4wpdv9f/p5.png)

At the five-hour mark the pattern had changed. Instead of a courier with a clock, Peter’s cell phone had chimed with an incoming text message. It had read, “’tick tock’ goes the clock.”

Jones traced it to a burner phone that had been switched off the moment the text was delivered.

An hour later exactly Peter received the next text, from a different burner. This one said, “The marathon is ending. Will there be a sprint to the finish?”

Now Peter sat at his desk running through the rather long list of men and women that he and Neal had taken down in their two-year partnership. He had no idea that it would be such a painful process. Memories of their time together, both the good and the bad, came flooding back and Peter’s agonizing desperation to find his lost partner grew with every single one. 

Seeing Neal that first morning dressed to the nines in his vintage Devore, “You look like a cartoon.” The pride he felt upon realizing Neal had created the exigent circumstances premise for the raid on Hagen’s warehouse. Holding Neal tightly in his arms as the younger man screamed and raged in a futile attempt to reach Kate as she burned. The look in Neal’s eyes at the mansion on Long Island when he thought Peter had betrayed him. The trust in those same eyes that same day when Neal’s life literally sat in Peter’s hands. Neal’s brilliance in helping him escape from Keller’s cell. The camaraderie they both felt kneeling atop the U-boat. Neal’s anger when Peter accused him of stealing the treasure. His own sense of loss and conviction when he gave Neal the signal to run. The undeniable surge of love he felt when he found Neal on Cape Verde. The passion that he and Neal and El had shared for those wonderful few months before everything had fallen apart and Peter had gone to prison for a crime that Neal’s father had committed. The torment he had buried behind his determination when he ended their relationship and sent Neal away for the last time.

Peter was staring unseeingly at the list before him, when his cell phone began to ring. As he picked it up he hoped that it wasn’t his wife. She would hear in his voice that something was wrong, very wrong and he didn’t want to have to talk about any of this with her until he knew Neal was safe. It had been his decision to end their relationship with Neal. Elizabeth had deferred to him when he told her that the risk hadn’t been worth it in the end, he had been the one to go to jail, the one who had risked his whole career to be with Neal after all, but Peter knew that while El had understood, she hadn’t been happy with the decision. 

But it wasn’t El on the phone, it was Sara. 

“Peter, sorry to be so long calling you back, but I was in the middle of a little crisis here when you called. What’s going on?”

“Unfortunately, we seem to be having a bit of a crisis here as well,” he acknowledged. “Sara, I know it’s been awhile, but do you have any idea where Neal might be? Maybe a contact number for him?” Peter mentally crossed his fingers. Sara was his last hope for finding out where Neal might be now.

There was an unnaturally long pause on the other end of the phone. “Sara?”

“Peter, Neal’s in New York. He has been since the anklet came off.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s been back in New York for over a year.”

“I had no idea.” He should have known, shouldn’t he, that Neal was back in New York, so close and hiding in plain sight. 

“I know. He didn’t want to bother you, or make you feel obligated in any way. But, he missed the city and June, so he decided to move back.”

“Can I get his number from you, Sara? It’s important.”

Sara hesitated on the other end of the line again. “I’m not really sure that’s in Neal’s best interest.”

“Look, I don’t really have time to get into the details, but something has come up and I think Neal might in trouble.”

“You didn’t even know where he was a moment ago. How can you know that he’s in trouble?” Sara questioned.

Peter understood Sara’s reluctance and he appreciated her desire to protect Neal, even from him, but he needed her help. “Someone’s been sending me messages that look to be a credible threat. I just need to check on him, make sure he’s okay. I promise I’ll leave it at if that’s what Neal wants.”

“What kind of threat?” Sara asked, clearly unsettled by Peter’s words.

“It’s too much to get into and nothing specific except for a mention of Neal. Sara, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t really concerned that his life might be in danger. Please.”

Sara read off a phone number and then continued, “Peter he’s working with Sterling Bosch and living back at June’s. I’ll call the New York office and see if he’s there or if anyone knows where he can be found and get right back to you.”

“That would be great. In the meantime I’ll try and call him and see if I can get a trace on his phone if he doesn’t answer. Sara, thank you.”

Peter dialed Neal’s number immediately after hanging up with Sara. There was no answer and his call went directly to voicemail.

“You’ve reached Neal Caffrey. I’m not available at the moment, but please leave your name and a number where I can call you back.”

It was hard to believe, but as he listened to Neal’s message Peter realized that he had begun to forget what Neal’s voice had sounded like. Tears welled in his eyes and it took him a moment after the beep to compose himself enough to actually leave a message.

“Neal, I know this is unexpected, but please call me back as soon as you get this message. Someone’s threatened your life and I need to make sure that you’re okay. Please, for El if not for me.”

Peter hung up then and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

He passed off the number to Jones to try and run a trace on Neal’s phone and then returned to his office to wait. Five minutes later his phone rang again and Peter clutched at it hoping desperately that it was Neal. When he saw Sara’s name on the screen he almost felt like crying again. “Sara, any news?”

“He didn’t make it to the office today, Peter. He was scheduled to have a lunch meeting with the VP of his department and he didn’t show. I tried calling him when I got off the phone with the office and it went straight to his voicemail. He’s in trouble isn’t he?”

“I think so.” Admitting it to Sara made it real in a way that Peter had been trying to avoid all day. Neal was in danger. Neal had been gone from his life for three years, but suddenly Peter was right back in those days when Neal would go off and do something impulsive and crazy and Peter would do whatever it took to drag him back from the edge. 

“What can I do to help?”

“Keep making phone calls. See if you can find out who may have seen him last or if anyone knows what cases he’s been working on, where he might have been going today or last night.”

“I can do that. I’ll call you back the moment I have anything. Please keep me in the loop.”

“Of course. Thank you, Sara.”

As soon as Peter hung up with Sara he called everyone in the office into the conference room. It was after five, but thankfully the majority of the unit was still at their desks. Most of the members of the White Collar team had worked with Neal, had liked him. Peter hoped that now that they knew Neal was in trouble they would do everything they could to help Peter find him before it was too late.

Peter gave everyone a moment to find a seat and settle in and then said the most difficult words he had uttered since the night he told Neal he was sending him away. “Neal Caffrey has been abducted and I have reason to believe that unless we find him in the next three and half hours he’ll be killed.”

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/woeq6g35m2yzlkx/losttime_anim.gif)

**One year, four months and six days ago**

Peter wandered the living room waiting for Elizabeth to finish getting ready for their anniversary dinner. They were keeping things simple this year, a corner booth at Donatella's, a good bottle of wine, a romp in the sheets later. 

As he passed the bookshelf his eye caught the small silver frame with the 'prom picture' that El had taken of him and Neal. He pulled it down and looked more closely at the image, a smile spreading across his face at the memory. Neal had looked so handsome and Peter had to admit the two of them looked pretty darn good together. 

As he stood there, Peter felt his wife's arms wind around his waist from behind. "You two looked good enough to eat that night," El said.

Peter nodded. "I was just thinking the same thing."

“I still miss him," El's voice was wistful.

Peter nodded again. At least while Neal was working for Phil Kramer Peter could keep tabs on him, make sure that he was alright and keeping on the straight and narrow. But, Neal's sentence was set to end in just a few short weeks and then Peter would lose his final connection to the man that he loved and had once seen as a permanent fixture in Elizabeth and his life. "Me, too."

"It's not too late," El suggested.

Peter placed the photo gently back and on the shelf and turned to face his wife. "It is. Ending things with Neal and sending him work with Kramer, it was the right thing to do, for us and for Neal. I still believe that."

"But, his sentence is ending. He'll be free and you won't be responsible for him anymore, at least not as an FBI agent."

"That's right, he'll be free to go wherever he wants, do whatever he wants, be whoever he wants. And, he's earned that, a chance to decide from himself. Would it be fair, after I sent him away, to ask him to come back, to limit his possibilities like that?"

"Is it fair, not to ask, not to find out if what he really wants is another chance with us?" El challenged. 

"It's been nearly two years, and he hasn't contacted us once. Isn't that enough of an answer." And, this was the crux of it, Neal had never contacted them. El had been deeply saddened that she had never had a chance to say goodbye to Neal. Peter had ended the relationship for the three of them and Neal was on his way to D.C. two days later. She had left him several voicemails and sent a couple of emails before he had gone, but Neal had never replied. 

El frowned up at Peter, nodded and then put her head on his chest, holding him close. 

 

 **Three**

Thankfully everyone in the room, even the few who had never met Neal, were on board to do whatever it took to find him.

Peter assigned Jones to a team that would work on backtracking Neal’s movements. They would start at Sterling Bosch and June’s and see if they could find out exactly where and when Neal had been abducted. A request for any information about possible abduction sightings with the NYPD that Jones had made earlier in the day had turned up nothing. So either no one saw Neal get grabbed or no one was talking. Tracking Neal’s phone had been a bust too. It had been turned off early this morning. 

Diana who had been out of the office most of the day at a training was given the unfortunate task of trying to get something, anything from the boxes and clocks even though the preliminary attempts had failed to yield anything but dead ends. Blake was on the now three burner cell numbers, trying to triangulate the locations that the different texts were sent from. The last text message Peter had received right on schedule had been more foreboding than the rest. “Tick, tock, you’re CI’s time is almost up.”

Peter had decided to return to the suspect list and see if he could find any connection at all between the messages, the MO and any of their former cases. But first Peter had a phone call to make, one that he had put off as long as possible.

“Hey hon,” El said brightly when she answered the phone.

“Hey, hon,” Peter replied heavily. “I’m not going to make it home for dinner tonight.”

“That’s fine. What’s going on? You sound upset.”

“I am. I’m not really sure how to tell you what’s going on.”

“Peter, are you okay?” El asked anxiously.

“I’m okay, but El, something’s happened to Neal.” 

Peter heard a harsh intake of breath on the other end of the phone. “Is he alright?”

“I don’t know. It looks like he was abducted either last night or early this morning.”

“Abducted from where? How did you find out?”

“He’s been here El, in New York. Someone has been sending me messages over the course of the day intimating that they have Neal and that they’re going to harm him if we don’t stop them.”

“Peter you have to find him,” El implored. 

Peter wanted desperately to promise his wife that he would find Neal and when he did that he would bring Neal home with him. That Neal would be safe and they would be reunited and that they could somehow have the happily ever after that hadn’t worked out the first time. But, they had nothing to work with and Neal’s time was slipping away. “I’m trying, everyone here is trying. We’ll do everything we can.” 

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, but if I think of anything, I’ll call. I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“I love you too. Find him.” El ordered before she hung up.

Peter spent the next half hour crossing names off the list. People who had died, there were a few. People who were in foreign custody who would have a very hard time trying to arrange something like this. People who didn’t have the means, even if they really had the desire. That still left him with more than a dozen. Keller, despite being in a Russian prison was at the top of the list, but Peter had to let that option go. There was no way that he had the time to go through international channels and find out if Keller could have pulled this off.

Something was niggling at the back of Peter’s brain. It had been since he first glanced over the list of names of the people that he and Neal had caught. He stood and stared out the windows behind his desk. The sun was just starting to sink, the lights of the city beginning to glow. There was a clue in all of this somewhere, something he was missing. What did they know? Peter asked himself silently. What had their bad guy given him to work with? There had to be something, or why bother with the messages? What kind of game was Neal’s abductor playing? 

Suddenly, something clicked in Peter’s mind. It wasn’t a game. It was a test. And, the alarm clocks were the key.

 

**Two**

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/4x161hjfjs5x2h2/p3.png)

Neal woke up crying. It had been awhile since a dream had left him with real tears in his eyes upon waking. The last time had been in the first weeks after he’d been sent to D.C., after Peter and El had given up on them, on him. Then, the dream had been more a memory, Peter in his apartment at June’s, telling Neal that he was a criminal and that he was sending Neal to Kramer, for his own good. Of course, it was what wasn’t said that night that had broken Neal’s heart and brought him to tears. 

This time he had been dreaming of being trapped in his own grave, not quite dead. His breathing was soft and shallow, his brain slow and uncertain, his body cold and stiffening. The knowledge that his life was ending and that he was helpless to prevent it; it piercing his thoughts like a knife to his skull. 

He woke to find his dream was his reality. 

He tugged lethargically at the shirt that was still draped over his face, pulling it down toward his neck and off of his nose and mouth. Breathing in his coffin was hard enough without the weight of the fabric blocking his access to the meager available air. 

He let his tears continue to fall. It was all he could do now, mourn for a life cut short while he watched and waited helplessly. 

He wondered briefly where he was buried and if anyone would ever find him. Maybe some archaeologist in another five hundred years. Maybe some construction crew digging out a basement next month. Either way he was hardly Jimmy Hoffa so he doubted anyone would speculate about his disappearance for long. Maybe Sara, Moz and of course June would wonder for a while what had become of him, but they would never find him here. Truth be told that was probably for the best. Hopefully, they would simply assume that he had changed his mind about staying in New York. That he could no longer live with the idea of being so close to Peter and Elizabeth but still so far from them. That he decided the best course of action was to cut all of his ties and start over somewhere new. It was better to let them think that he was off somewhere finding his happiness, instead of grieving for him.

As for Peter and Elizabeth, now he would never know, never get the chance that he dreaded and secretly hoped for, to find out if there was any possibility they could be friends again, or lovers. And, that too was probably for the best. He had taken the risk once, they all had and despite how wonderful those few months had been, Neal doubted that Peter or Elizabeth would be willing to risk it again after how miserably things had ended that first time. 

A sudden overwhelming rush of sorrow overtook him. His breathing hitched and his tears poured out in fresh waves. He didn’t want die, not now and not like this. His captor hadn’t even had the courtesy to give Neal any clue as to what he was dying for. The tick tock and the smiley face on the side of his coffin were nothing more than a horrible taunt. Neal turned his head to look over at the graffiti that mocked him one last time. He couldn’t summon any rage now, not even an iota of anger. He had resigned himself to death, despite a lifelong belief that he would never do such a thing, never give in when the odds were against him. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

Neal turned his head back, stared at the ceiling of his tomb for a final moment and then closed his eyes. There was nothing left to fight for. He would sleep and let his dreams carry him into death. 

 

 **One year, one month and 26 days ago**

Neal sat at the wrought iron table on the deck outside his apartment in June’s home, a glass of wine at his elbow and June herself in the seat across from him. The sun was just beginning to set, the city he has missed so much a beautiful backlit tableau before him.

“Are you sure dear, that this is what you want?” June asked, her concern for him vibrating in her voice.

He turned and smiled at her. Not his full wattage smile, but the softer, more honest one that had rarely seen the light of day while he was living in D.C far from everything and everyone that he loved. He nodded, “Yes. This is where I belong.”

“Then you’re welcome to live here for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you June, for everything.”

“Of course dear. This old house has missed you, you know. It needs a little excitement in its life every now and again.”

Neal laughed. “Well, I don’t know how much of that I’m bringing back with me this time around. I have a legitimate job, with health insurance, a 401k and stock options even.”

“Oh, I think you’ll manage to bring some adventure and lust for life into this old house again.” June replied with a bright smile.

“I’ll do my best.” 

They spent several minutes then enjoying the evening, the wine and the fact that they could once again sit together on the balcony in companionable silence.

Finally June asked the question that had been on her mind since Neal first let her know of his intent to return to the city several months ago. “Do you plan to let Peter and Elizabeth know you’re back?”

Neal didn’t respond right away. Then he turned and looked at her, a sadness in his eyes that she wished she could erase for him. “No. I don’t want them to feel like they need to be my friends. I don’t want any awkward reunions or false promises.”

“But, dear there is a possibility that’ll you’ll run into them eventually. Especially Peter through your work.”

“Maybe, if and when that happens, I’ll figure it out. For now, I think it’s best if I let things stay as they are. You know they never contacted me while I was in D.C. I think that was a pretty clear message. They don’t want me in their life and I’ve accepted that.”

The hurt that the Burkes had caused him still shone so plainly on his face. “Are you certain of that dear?”

Neal had forgotten that June knew him better than he knew himself in some ways. He let out a rueful huff. “Which, that they don’t want me in their life or that I’ve accepted it?” 

“Either.”

Neal shrugged. “Probably to the first, maybe to the second, but it if I keep looking for them on the other side of every coffee shop door, I’ll never figure out how to move on.” It was a dream he had had more times than he could count since he had left New York, randomly bumping into Peter and Elizabeth in a corner Starbucks or a quaint bistro somewhere. He had imagined how that reunion would go, the words spoken, the looks that would pass between them, the feelings that would be rekindled. Silently Neal chided himself once again for wanting something back that was gone forever. 

He ran a hand through his hair and then looked into June’s eyes. “Promise me that you won’t tell them I’ve come back. The more time that passes, the less it will hurt all of us if we do meet again.”

June frowned. “I’m not sure that’s true, but I promise I won’t tell them anything you don’t want me too.”

Neal reached across the table and took June’s hand in his. “Thank you. I know that it seems antithetical but I came back to New York to get a fresh start.”

“A brand new start of it?” June asked with a cunning smile.

Neal laughed again, this time June could hear a hint of happiness in the sound. “In old New York, exactly.” 

 

**One**

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/u2exz9njqoc9ir9/p4.png)

It took far longer than Peter wanted it to and far more smooth talking than Peter felt was necessary under the circumstances, but finally he had gotten through to the warden at Allenwood Federal Penitentiary and convinced the man that he needed to speak to a particular prisoner, that a life was on the line.

And, now Peter was waiting for the man who had had the audacity to tell Neal once upon a time, “A suggestion for the next time you commit a crime, don’t get caught,” to be brought from his own prison cell and put on the line.

Peter looked at his watch for probably the twentieth time since the warden had transferred the call to the guardroom on the correct prison wing. Peter had less than an hour according to the text he had received just over ten minutes ago to find his missing former partner. The text had been ominous in its curt way, “One and done.”

There was the sound of someone picking up the receiver on the other end of the line and then a voice Peter hadn’t heard since the man's trial almost four years ago said “Agent Peter Burke, I presume.”

Peter was in no mood to take any tests or keep up any facades, so he got right to the point, “Where is he, Walker?”

“Oh now Agent Burke, there’s no need to be rude. We have a moment to catch up surely.” Edward Walker's voice still had that lilting, supercilious quality to it, even after four years in prison. 

“I’m not playing games with you now. I know you took him. Where. Is. Neal?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. But, it’s so nice of you to call.”

“It was the alarm clocks that gave you away, just like the one you left in the safety deposit box that day. You did this.”

“If I did, you have no evidence, no way of tying anything back to me. I have the perfect alibi. I’m in prison after all.”

“Tell me where to find him.”

“I don’t think I will. Not today at least. Call me back sometime next week and maybe I’ll have unearthed some information for you then.”

“You son of a bitch,” Peter seethed.

“Now, now Agent Burke, that temper isn’t going to help you any. You know you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“I’m not trying to catch a fly Walker, but I will catch you. I’ll find a way, if it takes the rest of my life to prove that you did this and you will never see the outside of Allenwood again. 

“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way Agent Burke. It’s a shame, what happened to your CI. I hope you find him. I really do. It’s terrible that time is always against us and that clocks are a constant reminder of that. Goodbye, Agent Burke. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”

Walker hung up then, Peter heard the click as the line went dead. Walker had all but confessed though Peter didn’t really need him to. It wasn’t a confession that he had been calling to gain, it was a clue. And, now he had one.

Peter spent the next ten minutes on the internet searching for clocks in the New York metro area. There was the Clock Tower building on Broadway, the Clock Tower Triplex apartments in DUMBO and the old Colgate Clock that stood where the former Colgate Building used to be across the river in Jersey City. 

 

**Zero**

Peter had left Blake to take the Clock Tower building with one team and Diana went out to DUMBO with a second team. Peter took Jones with him to Jersey City. His gut was telling him that Neal was there, somewhere at the clock that stood on the shore of the Hudson River. It was only just over a four mile drive from Federal Plaza, but they had to divert north to the Holland Tunnel and then back south again once they reached the Jersey side. It seemed to Peter like a fruitless waste of precious time.

When they finally arrived on site, the sky was fully dark. The only direct lighting came from the illuminated clock above them. There was, as Peter expected no one around, at least not visibly. The site was too open. If Neal was here, he was hidden somewhere. The clock was surrounded by a three-foot chain-link fence and a small, but empty guard booth sat just inside of it. There was a chain and padlock on the gate securing the grounds. 

Peter opened the trunk of the BMW and pulled out an emergency kit that he kept there. Inside among other things was a bolt cutter, two Maglights and a small collapsible shovel. He pulled all four items out and handed the cutter to Jones who made short work of the lock and got the gate open.

Once inside, Peter and Jones separated to cover the grounds as quickly as possible. Peter started by breaking into the booth, just to be certain that Neal wasn’t hidden on the floor inside the small space, while Jones made his way around the fence perimeter. 

“Jones, anything? Peter yelled out after he finished with the booth and made a quick sweep of the area with the Maglight.

“There’s no place to hide anything or anyone around here.” Jones answered as he came back around to the rear of the five-story tall clock. 

“The mechanical booth,” Peter replied, as he quickly made his way over to the ladder leading up the center of the back of the structure.

Jones was right on Peter’s heels as he reached the small ledge outside of the room where the system that ran the clock was housed.

The small door was locked, but gave easily when Peter threw his shoulder against it. The door slammed into the room and Peter heard the whir of machinery. It was loud against the stillness of the night around them. When Peter waved the beam of the flashlight through the room he saw nothing but the clockwork and a small bench lining the wall on the far side.

“Nothing,” he ground out in frustration to Jones. 

But Jones wasn’t behind him as Peter had assumed. Instead he was standing on the far end of the platform, his own flashlight pointed down toward the ground below them.

“Peter come look at this,” he said distractedly, waving Peter over.

“What have you got Jones?” Peter asked as he carefully made his way over to the other man’s side.

Jones flicked his flashlight’s beam over a spot on the ground. “Does that look like what I think it looks like?”

Peter looked down to where Jones indicated. Most of the earth at the base of the clock was hard packed and smooth, but here the dirt looked like it was slightly mounded in a long, narrow patch. It resembled nothing like the sight of a just filled grave.

“Oh God,” Peter breathed. He was on the ground and running toward the area Jones had highlighted before his brain even had the chance to process his climb back down the ladder. The collapsible shovel he had left on the ground leaning against the clock's supporting structure in his hand.

As soon as he reached the spot, it was even more obvious what it was and Peter began desperately shoveling the loose dirt away. 

Jones ran up beside him. “Peter give me your keys,” he urged.

Peter fumbled for them in his pocket and then tossed them over, not asking what Jones wanted them for. The only thing that mattered to him was reaching Neal.

Jones ran off as soon as the keys were in his hand, but returned just a minute later with the snow shovel that Peter kept in the trunk of his car gripped in his hands. They made short work of the mound and then began digging down in earnest. The dirt was still loosely packed; it had obviously been recently dug up. 

They kept going through first one foot of soil, then two, then on to the third. It was awkward with only Peter’s small hand shovel and Jones’ oversized, plastic snow shovel for the task, but they didn't let that slow them down. Peter could smell his own sweat mixed with the loamy scent of the earth. He could hear his harsh breathing in sharp counterpoint to Jones’ as they worked together without saying a word. Without voicing the fear that Peter knew they both felt - Neal had been buried alive and their time had run out more than a half ago. Neal's air had run out. 

They were five feet down when Peter's shovel thunked against the solid lid of the box Neal had been buried in. The finality of the sound quickened their pace and within a couple of minutes they were standing atop the slab of oak that separated them from Neal, brushing away the remnants of the dirt. 

Then Jones pulled himself back up out of the hole while Peter wedged himself against the dirt wall, shoving one foot between the box and the soil and leaving the other on top of the lid for leverage as he used the edge of the shovel to try and pry the nails up. From above, Jones aimed the beam of the Maglight where Peter was working.

As the first nails began to give, Peter called up "Jones, get an ambulance." The light never wavered, but after a few moments Peter could hear Jones on his cell, calmly speaking to a dispatcher. 

Once he finally had one corner of the lid wedged up an inch Peter tried calling out to his former partner. "Neal, it's Peter, we're here and we're going to have you out in a minute. Just hang on, okay?"

Peter waited a moment, listening, hoping against hope that Neal would reply. Even if the words Neal spoke were ones of recrimination, 'go away you bastard,' Peter just needed desperately to know that the man he still loved, still lived. But, there was nothing, just the harsh sounds of his own ragged breathing. 

"Neal, buddy can you answer me?" Peter asked, redoubling his effort to pry the stubborn lid up and away from the box. There was still no reply and Peter's heart began to beat wildly in his chest. "Please Neal, please," he silently begged.

It took a couple more minutes before Peter had enough of the nails pried up to grab the lid in both hands and start pulling it up. At that point Jones joined Peter again, doing his best to wedge himself into the meager space around the box to help Peter wrench the lid away. 

With a resounding crack the wood finally gave way and together Peter and Jones tossed the lid up and out of the pit. That was when they finally got their first look at Neal. In the minimal light that filtered down from the clock above them, Neal looked dead but not reposeful. Signs that he had struggled where everywhere. His hair was curled around him in disarray. He had shrugged off his suit jacket, which lay rumpled beneath him. Neal's chest was bare save his undershirt, his once light blue dress shirt streaked with dirt, sweat and tears lay wrapped incongruously around his neck and head. One hand was resting on his chest, the other was gripped around a fading light stick that lay next to him. 

Peter didn't have time to think about the likelihood that Neal was in fact dead, so he pushed the thought aside roughly and focused on what he needed to do. "Jones, let's get him out of here." He picked Neal up by the shoulders, noticing briefly how cold Neal's skin was while Jones got his hands under Neal's knees. It was unwieldy trying to lift Neal's limp weight over their shoulders and onto the solid ground above them, but they managed and moments later Peter was kneeling beside him. 

In the slightly better light, Peter could see that Neal's lips were the same color that his dress shirt had once been, a dusky blue, and the skin on his face had a slightly bluish hue as well. Peter put one hand up to Neal's nose and mouth to see if he was breathing at all while using his other hand to check for a carotid pulse. Peter didn't feel any movement of air against his hand, but he breathed his own sigh of relief when he felt a slow, weak beat against his fingertips. 

Peter ran his hand through Neal's hair and whispered "You're safe now Neal. I found you. You're going to be okay. Just stay with us." 

He was so focused on Neal that he hadn't realized the ambulance had arrived until Jones put a hand on Peter's shoulder to guide him out the way to give the EMTs room to work. 

Peter stood by feeling helpless for the millionth time that day during the frenetic few minutes the two medics checked Neal's vitals, bagged him, started an IV and then efficiently loaded him into the ambulance. 

As the ambulance sped away on the short drive to Jersey City Medical Center, Peter watched the flashing lights on the van blurring through his tears, his heart breaking from failing his partner, his lover again. 

 

**Epilogue**

[](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/bxfz7mlvy7joaih/p6.png)

One month later

Peter knocked a quick rap on the door to Neal’s apartment and then let himself in. Neal was standing in the threshold of the French doors, silhouetted by the setting sun. Peter stopped for a moment and reveled in the beauty of the man before him. Neal was dressed in khaki slacks and a blue button down shirt that fit him like a second skin. The light of the closing day highlighted the perfect curves of Neal’s body, the exquisite lines of his chiseled features. Adonis brought back to life. The analogy hit too close to home and a sudden shudder wracked through Peter’s body. 

He shook it off and moved to the table to lean on the back of one of the chairs. “Good day?” He asked, with feigned casualness. 

Neal turned toward Peter slowly. “It was okay.” 

It had been Neal’s first day back at work at Sterling Bosch and Peter had wanted to call him numerous times to check and see how the younger man was holding up, to make sure that the stress of being back wasn’t too much for him; but Peter had held himself back. It had been a personal exercise in masochistic torture. But he didn’t want to add any more pressure to Neal or make him believe there was a real reason that Peter needed to check up on him, like he wasn’t capable of handling his life on his own any longer.

“Just okay?” 

“Just okay,” Neal confirmed with a nod.

“It’s a start right?” Peter added, trying to put a positive spin on Neal’s answer.

Neal nodded again and turned back to look out across the balcony at the cityscape once more.

Peter stood there uncertain of how to continue the conversation or if he even should. Since Neal’s imprisonment, which was the only word Peter could allow himself to use to describe what he and Neal had endured that day a month ago, Neal had been distant. At first Peter believed wholeheartedly that Neal’s behavior was the result of their breakup and having sent Neal to D.C. But, eventually Peter was able to look beyond how Neal seemed to be acting toward him and El, and he realized that the distance was something that Neal had placed between himself and everyone, even June. As if the six feet of dirt that had covered him and separated him from everyone he knew and loved was still there surrounding him, suffocating him. 

Peter had tried, was still trying to dig the soil away like he had that night. He had seen Neal almost every day since, sitting by his beside at the hospital, sitting by his bedside here at June’s, taking walks together in the brisk early spring air while Neal attempted to recover both physically and psychologically from what had happened. 

And, Neal was making progress, Peter hoped that they both were. It was only a few days ago that Neal had finally told Peter his side of the story, what his thoughts were when he first woke up in that box, how he had tried futilely to save himself, how he had despaired knowing that this time Peter wasn’t going to find him, or even look for him. They had both cried that afternoon, Neal for the terror that the memories brought back and Peter in grief for having ever let Neal believe he deserved to be abandoned.

Peter had held Neal as the younger man cried and he shed his own tears. It was the first time that Neal had allowed Peter that close physically and while it was a moment filled with pain there was also a deep sense of contentment in Peter at being able to hold Neal in his arms again. 

But despite the progress there was still something holding Neal apart from him and El. The only logical explanation was that Neal no longer loved them. That the separation that Peter had forced upon them had killed Neal’s feelings for them. 

But Peter wasn’t ready to give up on the idea of a reunion. Just like he couldn’t give up on Neal even after they had passed the zero hour a month ago. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Neal was lost to him then, and he wasn’t prepared to do it now. 

Peter gathered his resolve, cleared his throat and jumped in feet first. “Neal, I’ve waited to talk to you about this until I thought you were ready.”

“Talk about what?” Neal replied keeping his eyes glued to the view.

“Us, you, me and El. We want you back in our life.”

Neal didn’t respond right away. Instead he turned back into his apartment and sat at the dining room table. “Are you sure, that’s what you both want, Peter?”

Peter took a seat across from the younger man, so that he could look him in the eye when he replied, “It is.”

Neal shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why? If you’re not ready, we can wait as long as you need.”

“Truthfully, I’m not. But that’s not the issue,” Neal replied looking down at the wood grain of the table.

Peter’s heart sank. It was what he feared. Neal had fallen out of love with them. He nodded. “I understand. It’s been a long time, of course you’re feelings have changed.”

Neal barked out a mirthlessly laugh. “How I wish that was true.” 

Peter’s brow furrowed, confusion marring his features. 

Neal looked up again, meeting Peter’s eyes. “Peter, I could no more stop loving you and Elizabeth than I could stop planning cons that I’ll never pull.” 

“Then what is the issue?” Peter asked carefully, afraid once again of pushing Neal too far, too fast.

Neal looked down at the tabletop again. “You hurt me Peter.” Neal’s voice was shaking as he continued. “I can’t go through that again.” 

Peter closed his eyes and silently chastised himself for the hundredth time for the way he handled things after he was released from prison. “I know I hurt you.” Peter took a deep breath before continuing. “I’ve made a few mistakes in my life, Neal, Connie Nussbaum in the fifth grade, my first bedbug-ridden apartment when I came to New York, not figuring out you were James Bonds the day you gave me that green sucker. But, the worst mistake I’ve ever made was sending you away.”

Neal glanced up, gracing Peter with an unreadable expression and then he looked away again. 

“Neal, I can’t promise that I’ll never hurt you again. I wish I could.”

“I’m well aware of that, Peter.”

Peter nodded, acknowledging Neal’s words and his tone. “But, we love you and we want you back in our lives, in whatever way we can have you.”

They sat in silence for a moment and then Neal said, “I appreciate what you and El have done since my kidnapping. I do.” 

Neal paused and when he began speaking again Peter could hear the hurt ringing in Neal’s voice. “Do you have any idea how many times I dreamed about a chance encounter with you and El, where you would look at me like I was something precious that you had lost and suddenly found again. How many times I played that first conversation over in my head. The one where you tell me that you were wrong to send me away and that you’ve missed me and longed for me every day since?

“I’m not some toy you can play with until you get bored and toss aside, only to rediscover sitting on a shelf three years later.” Neal's voice cracked. “You can’t box me up and forget about me.”

Tears were flowing down Neal’s face and Peter’s heart was lying in ruins on the hardwood floor. Neal had been right, he wasn’t ready. Part of him was still buried six feet under the Colgate Clock. 

"We never forgot about you,” Peter replied. “We never stopped loving you and we never will. We’ve been here for you this past month because we want to be and that’s not going to change, Neal, never again, whether you decide you want to be with us again or not. We’ll still be here, for whatever you need.”

Neal wiped his hand clumsily across his cheeks smearing his tears more than drying them. 

“I’ve been dreaming about that chance encounter too,” Peter continued. “Seeing you walk into a coffee shop or a restaurant. El and I at the table together, secretly wishing you were with us and then suddenly in you walk, the sun following you in reminding us of how bright our lives were when you were in it.” 

Neal looked up into Peter’s eyes again, some of the pain replaced with curiosity. 

“We would stand and I would call out to you. You would look our way, confused at first, but then a small smile would spread across your face. You walk over to our table, and when you take my hand to shake it in a friendly gesture a shiver would run through me, warming me, reminding me again of what I had so willingly given up. Then you would kiss El’s cheek and put your hand on the small of her back. And I would do anything, say anything in that moment to bring you back where you belong, in the center of our lives.”

Neal swallowed hard and a new swell of tears fell from his eyes. “You really dreamed about that?”

Peter nodded, “More times than I can count.”

There was a long pause during which Neal futilely tried to dry his eyes again. “I wish that was how it happened,” he whispered finally.

“Me too, buddy. We can’t go back and change what happened, but we can go forward.”

“Together?” Neal asked, meeting Peter’s eyes again. 

“Together, always.”


End file.
